I find it hard to say, I say it's hard to find. I'm over a bail of hay, and broken of spirit and mind.
I'm lost in the woods in the dark. I'm running out of time. I struggle against pitch black and bark. I want to be happy, but worry it's a crime.
And can we be real for a second? 'Cause every new day is a ******* chore, and I am always tired and terrified teetering on the precipice of a steep decline in mental health or personal wealth out of luck. Out of time. There is no ******* context. Only words. Words that always have to rhyme.
Let's pretend we're happy. Let's dance. You and I will keep perfect step, we two. We can set the world alight given the chance. Become us and not just me and not just you.
I need you to tell me that I'm not alone, that others feel this from time to time. I'm feet of clay and heart of stone. I'm useless ******* meter and ******* rhyme.
I love you. I really do. I need you. Believe me when I write. I wish it was easy to say. I wish I was better. More. I'm buried in style but wish the substance was there. On better display. I am a museum of hidden exhibits. Tradition in the place of honesty.
I love you. I really do. I hope you love me, too. But I honestly haven't got a clue.